


halfway lie

by GStK



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 20:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: put on your shoes.





	halfway lie

**Author's Note:**

> A far-flung drabble from 2015 that never saw its end.  
> Uploading for posterity.

Aoba joins him for tea from time to time. He is the type of man who does not take no for an answer-- and even if he was, Ryuuhou is not the type to refuse him.

  
They talk of small things-- the difficulty of importing foreign tea, the fading popularity of Rib, the strange designs on the women’s kimonos in Flame Willow. It all contrasts with the rumours he's heard of the man, the cold wariness some speak of him with. He’s pleasant.

  
There is a point where Aoba drifts from the table and dares to look over his wall of designs, running his fingers over delicate paper. He pauses before a an explosion of flowers in graphite, and the look on his face turns fond. Ryuuhou understands that look very well.

“Your designs,” Aoba says, in that low and deliberate way he has. “They're very beautiful.”

  
“I’m glad you think so,” he returns. And he is. He always is. “I wonder-- are you interested in tattoos?”

  
He expects a rejection, but he is left wanting. Aoba turns to him with a look of knowing. “You could say that.” He ventures back over, taking his seat again and clasping his hands over his teacup. “I didn’t used to be, but lately, I've started to appreciate them.” When he follows Ryuuhou's gaze to his fingers, covered in red scratches, he only smiles more. “Maybe you could help me with that, Ryuuhou?”

For any artist, a masterpiece involves conflict with the brush, the instrument, the needle. It is the struggle that makes the piece come alive, its shades and contours made feel by the raw pain poured into it. Masterpieces do not come willingly, and it is that that makes them beautiful.

Ryuuhou hums thoughtfully, taking another sip of his tea. “I wouldn't mind,” he says.

But he does.

* * *

“Ah,” Aoba gasps, clawing at the futon beneath him. For one blissful moment, his face contorts in pain, a mess of light and shadow cast by the candles in the room. But then he squeezes his eyes shut and laughs, the sound rich enough to break the illusion.

  
“You seem to be enjoying this,” Ryuuhou notes. He pulls the long needle in his hands away, making room to swipe the excess ink off of Aoba's back with his glove. Aoba turns back to catch the tiniest glimpse of the action, and the pained smile on his face is deceptively beautiful.

  
“It's amazing.” Anyone else in his position would have been crying, yelling, begging for it to be over. Tears prick at the younger man's eyes, but he won't stop smirking. “It's just like I thought. You’re really the best.”

  
Ryuuhou doesn't say anything to that, cleaning his needles with thoughtless precision. After an hour and a half, the outline of the tattoo is just barely beginning to take shape, the dark shades stark against Aoba's pale skin. “Perhaps we should stop.”

  
“No,” Aoba answers, and at once, he is angry. His eyes snap to Ryuuhou's, threatening. “Keep going.” He reaches for the artist's hand, but the pain has made him sloppy: his fingers snag on his bracelet instead. Heedless, he tugs at it--”Until it's finished.”--and the pressure is enough to snap the cord holding it together.

  
The skulls scatter.

  
Aoba laughs again; to Ryuuhou, it’s an ugly, ugly sound.

  
They continue.


End file.
